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How shall it keep its rooted place,

The spearmen's twilight wood?
-"Down, down," cried Mar, "your lances
down!

Bear back both friend and foe!"
Like reeds before the tempest's frown,
That serried grove of lances brown
At once lay levell❜d low;

And closely shouldering side to side,
The bristling ranks the onset bide.

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'We'll quell the savage mountaineer,
As their Tinchel cows the game!
They come as fleet as forest deer,
We'll drive them back as tame."

Bearing before them in their course,
The relics of the archer force,
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,
Right onward did Clan-Alpine come.
Above the tide, each broad-sword bright
Was brandishing like beam of light,
Each targe was dark below;
And with the ocean's mighty swing,
When heaving to the tempest's wing,
They hurled them on the foe.

I heard the lance's shivering crash,
As when the whirlwind rends the ash;
I heard the broad-sword's deadly clang,
As if an hundred anvils rang!

But Moray wheeled his rearward rank
Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank-
My banner-man, advance!

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I see," he cried, "their column shake,
Now gallants! for your ladies' sake,
Upon them with the lance!"

The horsemen dashed among the rout,
As deer break through the broom;
Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,
They soon make lightsome room.
Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne-
Where, where was Roderick ther?

One blast upon his bugle-horn

Were worth a thousand men.

And refluent through the pass of fear
The battle's tide was poured;
Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear,
Vanished the mountain sword.

As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep,
Receives her roaring linn,

As the dark caverns of the deep
Suck the wild whirlpool in,
So did the deep and darksome pass
Devour the battle's mingled mass:
None linger now upon the plain,
Save those who ne'er shall fight again.

Ouglou's Onslaught.

A Turkish Battle-Song.

TCHASSAN OUGLOU is on! Tchassan Ouglou is on!
And with him to battle the Faithful are gone.
Alla, il allah! The tambour is rung,

And in his war-saddle each Spahi hath swung.

Scott.

Now the blast of the desert sweeps over the land, And the pale fires of heaveu gleam in each Damask brand.

Alla, il allah!

Tchassan Ouglou is on! Tchassan Ouglou is on!
Abroad on the winds all his horse-tails are thrown.
'Tis the rush of the eagle, down cleaving through air-
'Tis the bound of the lion, when roused from his lair.
Ha! fiercer, and wilder, and madder by far-
On thunders the might of the Moslemite war.
Alla, il allah!

Forth lash their wild horses with loose-flowing rein,
The steel grides their flank, their hoof scarce dints the

plain.

Like the mad stars of heaven, now the Delis rush out,
O'er the thunder of cannon swells proudly their shout-
And sheeted with foam, like the surge of the sea,
Over wreck, death, and wo, rolls each fierce Osmanli.
Alla, il allah!

Fast forward, still forward, man follows on man,
While the horse-tails are dashing afar in the van-
See where yon pale crescent and green turban shine,
There, smite for the Prophet and Othman's great line.

Y

Alla, il allah! The fierce war-cry is given

For the flesh of the Giaour shriek the vultures of heaven.
Alla, il allah!

Alla, il allah! How thick, on the plain,
The Infidels cluster, like ripe, heavy grain!
The reaper is coming, the crook'd sickle's bare;
And the shout of the Faithful is rending the air.
Bismillah! Bismillah! Each far-flashing brand
Hath piled its red harvest of death on the land!
Alla, il allah!

Mark, mark yon green turban that heaves through the fight.
Like a tempest-toss'd bark 'mid the thunders of night.
See, parting before it, on right and on left,

How the dark billows tumble-each saucy crest cleft!
Aye, horseman and footman reel back in dismay,
When the sword of stern Ouglou is lifted to slay.
Alla, il allah!

Alla, il allah! Tchassan Ouglou is on!

O'er the Infidel breast hath his fiery barb gone

The bullets rain on him, they fall thick as hail;
The lances crash round him, like reeds in the gale—
But onward, still onward, or Gou and his law,
Through the dark strife of deau bursts the gallant Pacha.
Alla, il allah!

In the wake of his might,-in the path of the wind,
Pour the sons of the Faithful, careering behind;
And, bending to battle, o'er each high saddle-bow,
With the sword of Azrael they sweep down the foe.
Alla, il allah! 'Tis Ouglou that cries-
In the breath of his nostril the Infidel dies!
Alla, il allah!

To the Clouds.

YE glorious pageants! hung in air
To greet our raptured view;
What in creation can compare
For loveliness with you?

This earth is beautiful indeed,

And in itself appeals

To eyes that have been taught to read

The beauties it reveals.

Motherwell.

Its giant-mountains, which ascend
To your exalted sphere,

And seem, at times, with you to blend
In majesty austere;

Its lovely valleys-forests vast;

Its rivers, lakes, and seas;

With every glance upon them cast,
The sight, the sense must please.

When, through the eastern gates of heaven
The sun's first glories shine;
Or when his gentlest beams are given
To gild the day's decline;
All glorious as that orb appears,

His radiance still would lose

Each gentle charm, that most endears,
Without your softening hues.

When these with his refulgent rays
Harmoniously unite,

Who on your splendid pomp can gaze,
Nor feel a hush'd delight?

"Tis then, if to the raptured eye

Her aid the fancy brings,

In you our fancy can descry
Únutterable things!

Not merely mountains, cliffs, and caves,
Domes, battlements, and towers,
Torrents of light, that fling their waves
O'er coral rocks and bowers;

Not only what to man is known

In nature or in art;

But objects which on earth can own
No seeming counterpart.

As once the Seer in Patmos saw
Heaven's opening door reveal'd,
And scenes inspiring love and awe
To his rapt sight reveal'd;
So, in a faint and low degree,
Through your unfoldings bright,
Phantoms of glory yet to be

Dawn on the wondering sight.

Anonymous.

The Voice of Spring.

I COME, I come! ye have call'd me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song;
Ye may trace my steps o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose stars in shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chesnut-flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers;
And the ancient graves, and the falling fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains.
-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin, or the tomb!

I have pass'd o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the stormy sea,

And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep-blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay, through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note, by the Iceland lakes,
Where the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain-
They are rolling on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may now be your home;
Ye of the rose-cheek, and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly;
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine; I may not stay!

Mrs. Hemans.

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